Rocio Graham. Photo: Max Graham
Building from the corners of the forest
by Rocio Graham
As I leave Santa Rosa Arts and Healing (SRA), I’m mesmerized by the late summer haze over the forest. Hidden below are the still, glasslike waters of Christina Lake and the emerald serpent of the Kettle River. The view always takes my breath away. Crystal water, voluptuous green mountains, and an open sky remind me why artists travel from faraway places to create here.
As a Mexican Canadian artist raised in the hot Sonoran Desert and coastal plains of Mexico, my connection to the forest came slowly—like percolated coffee. Now, I also consider myself a woman of the forest. I went from seeking salamanders and tarantulas to seeking mushrooms and moss. This connection to the land became the foundation of SRA and the reason we offer thematic art residencies centred on water, nature and death—all under Indigenous cosmologies.
Today, I’m travelling to Empire of Dirt (EoD) in Creston as an artist-in-residence. I’ve carved out time to let a new forest and a new creative space ignite my research for a personal project on grief.
Driving up the mountain on a dusty forest road, I pass orchards and ponderosa pines until the canopy opens to reveal a stunning valley view overlooking wetlands and river. I’m welcomed by Marnie Temple and James Wallis, who are working on the new workshop, and I see the studios scattered through 12 hectares of forest—most windows facing northwest, perhaps as an invitation to find your own North Star. I can immediately sense how deeply Marnie cares for this land and the residency space she has co-created. She smiles with the contentment of someone holding something sacred. I feel immediate kinship with this tall, warm and grounded Black woman.
During my time at EoD, I saw a clear connection between EoD and SRA. Both of us—women of colour—have conjured creative spaces that nurture art in remote areas, supporting underrepresented artists through a DIY approach that follows our hearts.
EoD offers artist-led cohort residencies that support research and experimentation, and foster collaborations that unfold organically. When I asked Marnie why she chose Creston for the residency, she said she loved that it was “far enough away to invite slowness and intention,” adding that “the residency starts the moment the artist begins their journey here.”
Marnie Temple and the Big Trees. Photo: James Wallis
Intention resonates deeply with me. At SRA, residencies invite artists to connect to nature, community and spirit with deep purpose, away from art systems of scarcity. One of SRA’s tenets is radical community care. Artists participate in five weeks of online learning about reciprocity in creative spaces and nature. During their time together, they practice care in simple yet profound ways: cooking, sharing meals, creating and making tea for one another. From skill-sharing to holding space, we build a culture of support and gift-giving.
Both EoD and SRA attract artists who seek relationships of reciprocity and connection with the land and the unassuming communities we’re rooted in. We expect cutting-edge creative hubs in big cities, but finding experimental, socially engaged and critical art discourse in the middle of a sleepy forest is, in itself, radical.
For Marnie, the ideas of intention and slowness go hand in hand. “By slowing down in an organic way, by letting the environment lead, many things can be created as a result of that experience.” I think there’s something powerful about slowness—it resists art systems that constantly demand output and productivity. Capitalist systems often shape residencies through expectations of value creation and return on investment. Grants and fees push artists to produce artifacts ready for market. Residencies that ask you to pause and simply be in nature, prioritizing reflection, are rare. In that sense, both of us offer spaces of resistance.
When I asked whether remoteness and DIY culture create challenges, Marnie admitted that EoD’s subtle presence in the forest can make it hard for outsiders to grasp. Some funders, artists and even community members often can’t fully understand it. “The best way to understand EoD is to experience it. I often struggle to convey all that happens and is created here,” she said.
She’s right. Describing what EoD or SRA truly are often feels impossible. How do you explain the profound transformations we witness in artists? Some of the Black artists attending EoD have gone on to be shortlisted for the Sobey Award. Marnie said she feels “happiness for the opportunity to nurture those artists.”
I’ve witnessed similar transformations. Because of my background in grief and death work, artists at SRA often feel comfortable opening up about their wounds. I believe that when we heal the artist, the truest form of creativity can emerge, like a phoenix rising from the ashes. We attract artists seeking authenticity. The community around us, though small and quiet, offers a genuine peace that allows something new to emerge.
When I asked about other challenges, Marnie spoke of “the ongoing challenge of finding the right fit—artists who need to be here.” I agree: artists must feel called to the land, and the land must call them back.
In ceremony, I often ask the mountains and the water who needs to come here to heal or to be healed. When I asked Marnie about her hopes for EoD’s future, she said, “Our hope is that EoD continues to support new artists and others through its new soft shop, and that both the Black Artist Residency and Indigenous Artist Residency continue to thrive.”
We reflected together on how women of our age can mentor and empower new artists and arts leaders. We discussed the weight of leadership, whether our work truly honours our vision and how to serve with integrity. Sometimes, the fear of causing harm can feel paralyzing, but it’s part of the responsibility of care, knowing we do not have all the answers. As Marnie said, “Friends allow each other to make mistakes.”
Perhaps our legacy lies in this, in opening paths for a new generation of residency administrators and showing that not everything needs to be perfectly in place for an alternative art space to thrive. Running rural residencies in the heart of B.C. has its challenges—geography being one of them. When I asked Marnie how we can overcome that, she said, “Through real commitment. People can choose to travel and reach out.”
Rural arts administration asks us to be creative, courageous and willing to make mistakes. In the end, we both agreed: despite the challenges, we love this work.
After all, the best community and creativity building truly does come from the corners of the forest.
